


Spring in Winter

by Midnight Wolf (Larkawolfgirl)



Series: Dare to Write Challenge [14]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Smut, implied/referenced canon rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 14:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11946291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larkawolfgirl/pseuds/Midnight%20Wolf
Summary: Sansa Stark had lost count of the times she had wished that her suffering would end, but now with home, family, and love, nothing was further from her mind.





	Spring in Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Will I ever write a long(er) GOT fic? Probably not
> 
> This was written for the Dare to Write Challenge prompt silver linings

It had been a long burdensome winter, but spring had finally arrived. Snow still blanketed the grounds of Winterfell as it would until their dying breaths, but finally the air was once again filled with the sounds of joy and children. Sansa Stark had lost count of the times she had wished that her suffering would end, but now with home, family, and love, nothing was further from her mind. The chill of the past had been replaced by the promise flowering within her sight.

There was still pain, but it was buried by the joy she felt when she looked upon the smiling faces of her children or felt the touch of her husband. The path had been difficult and unforeseen, but she had everything she had longed for since childhood. She was Lady of Winterfell, mother of three, and wife to the most wonderful man to have walked Westeros.

It was easy to lose herself to Jon. Not only did he support her as an equal, but he never ceased to flaunt his affection. In the past, sex had seemed tolerable at best, but with Jon it was something wonderful. While other man’s hands had felt vile and demeaning, his made her feel like a goddess, as if he were worshiping her in the best of ways.

When he touched her, it no longer mattered that he had touched other women or that other men had touched her. It was only the two of them within that moment. Only them and that burning passion that she had only dreamed of as a disillusioned teenager. Before Jon, kisses had been rare shows of allegiance. Now they were granted daily, tender in the morning, giddy throughout the day, and hungry at the end of day. Behind closed doors, there were no more titles, no more bloodlines, only bodies and hearts entwining.

It was always the same. Jon would touch her, worship her every inch, with sensual touches and kiss at her shoulder, lower back, and top of each thigh. Then he would flip her over and meet her eyes for confirmation (there was always consent, one of the million things that made her fall in love with him all over again) before going to town on her cunt. She would hold his head in her hands as her legs twitched and back arched. The pelts would run softly against her skin as she moved, flaming the fire light inside her further. Jon would go slow, licking long, tactical strokes, only brushing against that special nub of nerves when she was writhing for it, when her voice was free of all composure.

He was always a generous lover, yet he also loved to make her beg for what she wanted most. He would always chuckle with that genuine smile that Sansa could only describe as _Jon_ when she tugged him to her chest and pleaded for him to enter her. “Anything for my queen,” he would say, and she would literally melt into the pelts when he took first her lips then her core with one full thrust, both leaving her immediately breathless. She would wrap her legs around his back, craving as much closeness as she could get. Her arms would hold his face captive there against hers as he built up a rhythm. Only after he hit that ball of nerves inside her would she release her grip enough for him to escape momentarily to suck at her tits. Once again, she would lose all breath at the sensations he alone awoke in her. She would press him against her until her nipple was bruised and swollen before tugging him by his unruly hair back to her mouth with such passion he would finally lose his own breath (and she would praise herself at such a triumph in the tiny part of her mind that could still _think_ ). Mindless, she would lose herself to the sensations, both in voice and action (her fingers gripping and biting into his back and neck), but Jon always remained sensible enough to clasp her hand in his just before the end (and when she would turn into a pile of jelly, he would lay there with a stupid grin, just stroking at her hand).

Maybe that was the best gift he gave her, aside from the new family to hold any loneliness at bay. In these private moments, she was finally safe from her treacherous mind. There were no airs, no schemes, no plans, only instinctual action. And when those moments were over, then her mind was free to relax. There were plans to be made, but none as drastic as in the past. For the first time in _years_ , Sansa could genuinely smile day in and day out.

She loved being a mother nearly as much as being a wife. It was tiring, but oh so worth it when her daughters hugged at her skirts or when her son stood atop the dining hall pronouncing that he would fight any who ever attempted to hurt her. They would be her legacy, filling Winterfell for generations.

As a teenager, she longed for warm summers. She admired the elegant Southern gown designs and believed herself worthy of a crown. It was always about where she would go, never where she was. How funny it was now to know that winter had been what saved her in the end. That where she had been was always where she would ultimately go. That winter would never be as harsh as summer when she had a Stark’s skin. That Winter ~~fell~~ would always be _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally the first time I've ever used cunt in writing. I want to go hide.


End file.
